May Violets Spring
by luckbringer
Summary: Hamlet returns to Denmark to find Ophelia, his one and only love, as dead as poor Yorick. He's angry, grief-stricken, savage, remorseful...and then, suddenly, just a little bit hopeful. An alternate ending to the classic tale that might finally give Hamlet his happy ending.
1. Violets: Death Too Soon

**This work is meant to be a tribute, not a replacement, to William Shakespeare, his son, Hamnet, and the "Hamlet" masterpiece. Some of the characters and their actions/scene directions were taken or inspired by two movie versions of "Hamlet": the one directed by Gregory Doran, starring David Tennant, and the one directed by, and starring, Kenneth Branagh. I own nothing except my own words. Enjoy!

But first, some plot recap. This fanfic will begin in the middle of act 5, scene 1, and will contain Shakespeare's words from line 220 to line 302. The Bard's words from "Hamlet" will be in italics, and mine will be kept in the normal font. I will be attempting to write all of my lines of dialogue in iambic pentameter (but we'll see how long that lasts, now won't we?). Before this, Hamlet returns to Denmark from what would have been an ill-fated journey to London. He comes prepared to finish what he started and avenge his father by killing Claudius. Along the way, Hamlet and his friend, Horatio, pass by a gravedigger digging an unknown grave. They converse, and Hamlet has a moment with the skull of Yorick, King Hamlet's old jester, before he is interrupted by a funeral procession. It is Laertes, Claudius, and Gertrude bringing the dead body of Ophelia. By the end of this chapter, the story will enter "alternate ending" territory.**

Hamlet sighed and rolled poor Yorick's skull in his palm. How was it that a rotted chunk of bone had the ability to bring back so many fond memories? For a prince of Denmark, Yorick had been Hamlet's only childhood friend. The jester had entertained young Hamlet many times with nothing more than his words, his expressions, and a bucket of water. And now here he was, another skull scattered among the dirt. Now is he surely knocking the dead souls' pates, Hamlet mused, the thought making him smile.

All things come to dust. It was a fact Hamlet had known, but not completely comprehended, even before leaving Wittenberg. After all the events that had transpired since, he thought he'd have greater understanding of it. But now, seeing Yorick's bones littered among those of poor cobblers and wealthy land owners, Hamlet finally understood. It wasn't just the body that decomposed into dust, but honor and wealth and even love as well. Death was truly final. What did it matter how good a man's morals were, or how beauteous a woman made herself to be? According to the gravedigger, all it took was eight or nine years for a man like Alexander the Great to turn into a man like…him.

"_Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay, might stop a hole to keep the wind away_," Hamlet muttered aloud. "_O, that that earth which kept the world in awe should patch a wall t' expel the winter's flaw!_"

Horatio opened his mouth to comment, when suddenly Hamlet spotted a group of people coming towards them.

"_But soft, but soft awhile!_" He whispered, pulling himself and his friend behind a patch of hydrangeas. "_Here comes the King, the Queen, the courtiers_."

Indeed, that was who the group appeared to be. They were slowly walking along the side of the church, all dressed in black with their necks bent, as if in sadness. Four men carried a wooden casket above them, its wood uncharacteristically misshapen and the lid missing.

Hamlet's narrowed his eyes. "_Who is this they follow?_" he murmured, "_And with such maimed rites?_" It appeared to be a funeral procession, but most events involving royalty, even events as mournful as this, involved enormous presentations of wealth and regality. More than just a Doctor of Divinity and a dirt grave. A shameful death, perhaps?

"_This doth betoken the corse they follow did with desp'rate hand fordo its own life_," Hamlet whispered to Horatio. "_'Twas of some estate._"

His friend didn't reply. As the king and his entourage approached, Hamlet pushed aside his musings and pulled Horatio with him behind a bush. "_Crouch we awhile and mark._"

The grave digger, meanwhile, had forgotten their presence, and continued to dig and sing under his breath.

One of the richly-adorned men detached himself from the group to stand beside the Doctor of Divinity. "_What ceremony else?_" The man asked him.

Hamlet's eyes widened. "_That is Laertes, a very noble youth. Mark._" He ignored his friends shushing movements.

Horatio sat back on his heels and blew out a silent puff of air. Both Hamlet and he had been away from Denmark for quite some time. Who knew who could be that casket? If it proved to be someone who'd been dear to the prince, Horatio had to be read to keep Hamlet from launching himself at the procession like a mad man. The loyal friend tried to see who was missing from the group, but too many wore indiscernible black hoods.

"_What ceremony else?_" Laertes repeated.

The Doctor adjusted the collar of his black robe as if it was stifling him. "_Her obsequies have been as far enlarged as we have warranty_," he answered. "_Her death was doubtful and, but that great command o'ersways the order, she should be in ground unsanctified been lodged till the last trumpet. For charitable prayers shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her._"

Laertes opened his mouth to interrupt with anger, but the priest silenced him with a raised hand. "_Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants, her maiden strewments, and the bringing home of bell and burial._"

Hamlet stared at his hands, as if the wrinkles on his palms held the answers to his problems. Laertes had always seemed like a scholar to him. A bit rash at times, but a good and intelligent man at heart. Who could have died for Laertes to become this estranged? Hamlet could only think of Polonius, Laertes' father, but that funeral should have taken place months ago. And Polonius hadn't been a woman, unless Hamlet had changed more than just the old man's blood content and breathing patterns.

"_Must there no more be done?_" Laertes growled.

The Doctor of Divinity shook his head sadly. Though he was a holy man, taught that all victims of self-sacrifice were to be ostracized from church yards, he couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness for the woman. She was obviously loved very much by this man, so what could have prompted such a beautiful woman to take her own life? But his musings would not help to put the anxious man beside him at ease. "_No more be done_," he concluded. He gestured to the freshly dug grave, which the gravedigger was standing beside like a proud parent. "_We should profane the service of the dead to sing a requiem and such rest to her as to peace-parted souls._"

Laertes nodded to the holy man, and then to the procession behind him. At his signal the men carried the casket towards the hole. The gravedigger, sensing that his work was done, hoisted his shovel on his shoulder and went on his way, whistling a tune and tossing Yorick's skull up and down, up and down. The rest of the procession took their places, the king and queen at the foot of the grave, Laertes on the side, and the priest at the head.

"_Lay her in the earth, and from her fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring!_" Laertes lifted his eyes from the coffin and openly glared at the Doctor. "_I tell thee, churlish priest, a minist'ring angel shall my sister be when thou liest howling._"

Hamlet felt his heart freeze and the blood drain from his face. "_What, the fair Ophelia?_" He breathed, and he scrambled to his knees to attempt to see for himself. Horatio finally managed to hold him back with an arm around his friend's shoulders, but not before the prince caught a glimpse of what lay in the open casket. The breath in his lungs vanished unused as he saw that it was indeed Ophelia being lowered into the earth, and not some other maid.

The queen wiped her eyes absently and went to stand on the other side of the grave. "_Sweets to the sweet, farewell!_" She said as she bent down to scatter flowers over Ophelia's body. "_I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, and not have strewed thy grave._"

Horatio glanced at his friend worriedly, but there were no emotional explosions yet. Yet the man sitting next to him didn't look like the friend he had come to know and, yes, even love. This Hamlet was as lifeless as the corpses beneath their feet, staring at the funeral with features as cold as stone. Horatio would have almost preferred a breakdown.

The group stood around the fateful hole in silence for a few moments, before Laertes broke the still ness with a voice that sounded like a snarl. "_O, treble woe fall ten times on that cursèd head whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense deprived thee of!_"

Figuring that the nobleman's words were their signal, the work men started to move towards the hole with their shovels, but Laertes stopped them with a raised palm. "_Hold off the earth awhile, till I have caught her once more in mind arms._"

In Horatio's mind, jumping into his sister's grave was the worst thing Laertes could have done. The minute the man's feet touched the newly exposed ground Hamlet came to life. He was like a beast gone made, struggling against Horatio's grasp and practically snarling as Laertes picked up his sister's corpse. But they're embrace was anything but beautiful or poignant, not with Ophelia's arms flopping around like dead fish. The display was so full of raw desperation that the Doctor of Divinity turned deathly pale, and even the king and queen looked away.

"_Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead_," Laertes said tonelessly, but loud enough it seemed he was cursing the earth itself. Hamlet continued to struggle in his friend's grip as the nobleman's words fanned the flames of his rage. "_Till of this flat a mountain you have made t' o'ertop old Pelion or the skyish head of blue Olympus._"

Hamlet finally managed to free himself from Horatio's grasp, and he burst from the bushes fully prepared to save Ophelia from defilement. It was the least he could do for the woman he'd…no, he had no right to say that word. Not after all he'd done to her.

His rage returned to him and Hamlet shouted, "_What is he whose grief bears such an emphasis, whose phrase of sorrow conjures the wand'ring stars and makes them stand like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane!_"

Queen Gertrude gasped and covered her mouth in astonishment, and the priest muttered holy words and crossed himself. If anyone had been paying attention to him, they would have seen King Claudius turn deathly pale, as if he was seeing his own death before him. But Laertes was only stunned for half a moment, before his face became red and purple from barely-suppressed loathing. He laid Ophelia back in her grave and turned to Hamlet, shouting, "_The devil take thy soul!_"

Hamlet paused halfway to the rave, his chest heaving. A false smile played on his lips as he cheekily replied, "_Thou pray'st not well._" Then, like two opposing storms, they charged one another and clashed near the foot of Ophelia's grave.

The prince might have had the element of surprise, but Laertes had the desperation of a man fighting to avenge two souls instead of one. He dodged Hamlet's first swing, and then skipped all pretense of foreplay and instead went straight for his enemy's throat.

Hamlet let out a strangled gasp as the other man's arm hooked around his neck and railed his fists against Laertes. "_I prithee take thy fingers from my throat, for though I am no splentitive and rash, yet have I in me something dangerous, which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand._"

He grinned as one of his blows struck Laertes squarely on the jaw, and used the reprieve to drive his ankle into his rival's knee and twist out of his hold. Then they were at each other again, arms locked in a wrestling match for Ophelia's love and honor.

All the while, the surrounding mourners cried out in shock and fear. The king turned to his men and ordered, "_Pluck them asunder._"

"_Hamlet! Hamlet!_" Queen Gertrude screamed.

The men in black advanced on the grappling men and reached for them both, crying, "_Gentleman!_"

Seeing that his lord was in danger of being arrested (and maybe being deported, again), Horatio overcame his initial hesitations and jumped out from behind the bushes. "_Good my lord, be quiet_," he hissed, pulling Hamlet away from Laertes before the king's men could get their hands on his friend.

The two men were finally separated, Laertes and the king's men on one side of Ophelia's grave, and Hamlet and Horatio on the other. The king kept himself and his wife on the edge of the proceedings, next to the still-praying Doctor of Divinity.

In the back of his mind, Hamlet knew that his actions were borderline unseemly, especially for a prince, but he was beyond caring. All it took was one glance…Ophelia. Was it strange that he was surprised to see that Laertes' words were true? She looked so peaceful, as if she were sleeping. Perhaps sudden grief was to blame for making him think such childish thoughts, but his sadness also made a new kind of determination settle within him.

Before Laertes or anyone else present could speak, Hamlet growled, "_Why, I will fight with him upon this theme until my eyelids no longer wag!_"

"_O my son, what theme?_" The queen asked desperately.

"_I loved Ophelia!_" Hamlet shouted. And that was the problem wasn't it? A maiden such as Ophelia deserved those words at all hours of the day, in the present tense, and a man who was not afraid to say them. But Hamlet knew that he was not that man. He lied, used those closest to him, and held vengeful murder in his soul. And he'd told her so, on that fateful day that felt like a lifetime ago. The words, "_Get thee to a nunnery!_", rang in his ears and made him wince.

She'd chosen to protect her father that day, and why shouldn't she? He'd pushed her away in a time when his addled brain could have used her comfort the most. And then he'd confused her with mixed signals of his love for her…what an ass he was! Was it too self-righteous of him to wonder if he was the reason she took her life? If he had been braver, or more honorable, with his love for her, would she have killed herself? As it was, Ophelia had died too soon. She would never know that although his core was blackened by revenge, his heart had always belonged to her.

He swallowed down the first of his sobs and locked eyes with Laertes. "_Forty thousand brothers could not with all their quantity of love make up my sum_," Hamlet told him. "_What wilt thou do for her?_"

"_O, he is mad, Laertes!_" King Claudius hissed.

"_For love of God, forbear him_," Queen Gertrude said quickly, but it was unclear whether she was talking to her husband or Laertes.

Mad, was he? Not so near made enough to kill my kin, Hamlet thought, but he didn't voice his bitter thoughts. His quarrel was with Laertes. His mother's, and even his uncle's, judgment would come later.

Hamlet turned back to Laertes and drew himself to his full height (or as best he could while being restrained by Horatio). "_'Swounds, show me what thou't do_," he barked. "_Woo't weep, woo't fight, woo't fast, woo't tear thyself, woo't drink up eisel, eat a crocodile? I'll do 't._" His lips curled into a sneer. "_Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I!_"

With a violent heave, Hamlet broke free of his friend's hold and sunk to his knees beside Ophelia's grave. Everyone around him took a collective gasp and Laertes' face was as red as a furnace, all of them assuming that he intended to be the second person to leap into her grave. But, while part of Hamlet yearned to do just that, he couldn't bring himself to do so. She looked so out of place among the dirt and bones, pale and white, with a body that lay askew from when Laertes had held her. Even the scattered flowers looked more wilted in the muddy hole.

All men and women might be condemned to disintegrate into dirt and dust, but Ophelia did not belong under the earth. Not yet. Hamlet growled, "_And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw millions of earth on us, till our ground, singing his pate against the burning zone, make Ossa like a wart._"

He wasn't sure when the tears began, but as he pulled Ophelia's empty hand on his lap he saw a drop fall onto her thumb. "_Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou._"

The graveyard was as silent as the pale skulls below their feet. Laertes had escaped his captors as well, and now stood opposite Hamlet. One man kneeling and in tears, the other standing and looking at the man opposite him with more respect than before, both loving Ophelia. It was strangely poetic, in a way.

Queen Gertrude cleared her throat in an attempt to clear the awkwardness in the air. "_This is mere madness_," she began, but with those words, Hamlet shut his ears to her. His mother, the last family he had left, had called her only son crazy. A strange world it was when a parent wouldn't even believe their own child.

Hamlet let her voice melt into a white haze and clutched Ophelia's hand like a lifeline. He laid her palm against his cheek and closed his eyes, losing himself in the slow, steady pulse beneath her skin.

He froze.

No…it couldn't be. "Stay awhile! Hold thy tongue!" Hamlet shouted abruptly, and he felt every pair of eyes swing towards him. It didn't matter, nothing else mattered, not if he had heard correctly. He put his ear to Ophelia's wrist and held his breath, waiting…

_There_.

"She lives," he whispered in astonishment. Then, to Laertes, louder, "My lord, she yet lives!"

The man standing across from him stared with eyes as wide as twin moons. "Is't possible?"

Hamlet placed a chaste kiss to Ophelia's palm. "Tis faint, yet her pulse rings like yonder bells." He stepped further into the hold that was no longer a grave and put his arms under the maiden's shoulders. "Help me, Laertes, lord, brother and kin; four arms will make to pull her from Death's grip."

"And a foot as well, I'll gladly help thee," he replied, nodding. Then in one fluid motion he climbed into the grave and hooked his arms around her legs. Together the two men carried Ophelia out of the hole and laid her body on the weed-infested grass above them.

The king and queen were shouting over everyone else, demanding to know why Ophelia was being treated so roughly, but Hamlet left Laertes to explain to them what was happening. The prince only had eyes for his love. Of course, it would be a much better reunion if his love would wake up. Though her pulse continued to pound along her neck the maiden showed no signs of stirring.

"Ophelia," he whispered, "your lord has returned home." Naturally, she didn't reply.

"How came'st she to die?" Hamlet asked the group around him, who were still staring at him in confusion.

After a quick glance at the Doctor of Divinity, Laertes kneeled next to him. "Drown'd, prince, 'neath willows. They say she left singing."

Drowned? Hamlet clenched his eyes shut at the image his imagination presented him with. He wondered if her singing meant that she had been happy in the end, as if perhaps water was her natural realm.

But, yes, of course! A drowned man could still be saved, since departed souls do not travel as swiftly to Death's kingdom on muddy, bloody brooks. He'd learned much about the dangers of drowning, and how to revive someone, from the crew of the ship that had been ordered to take him to London. With skills he never had a chance to put into practice, Hamlet quickly set Ophelia down on the ground so she was on her back, and used his palms to pump against her chest. Laertes made indiscernible sounds of protest, but Hamlet's growl silenced him. Utmost focus was needed.

That didn't stop Laertes from almost knocking him over when Hamlet covered Ophelia's lips with his own in order to give oxygen to her lungs.

_Breathe_, he thought, the word repeating through his head in time with the pressure from his hands. _Breathe, Ophelia!_

And suddenly, on the fifth resuscitation attempt, she did.

**News flash! I am not CPR trained and for this reason you should not try and duplicate what Hamlet just did. I don't want my ignorance to be the cause of something…unpleasant. Anyway, the next chapters will be much shorter, and will hopefully have iambic pentameter. We're on our way!**


	2. Violets: Rebirth

**The long and the short of it: Yes, I will be writing all of my dialogue in Shakespearean iambic pentameter, cause, why not? It may take a little longer for me to update because of that. All quotes from "Hamlet" will be in italics, but from this point onward the quotes will be from different scenes of the original play. I own nothing except my own words.**

It wasn't until Ophelia was lying on a proper bed that things finally started to calm down. After they'd brought her to the palace infirmary and the royal doctor had confirmed her health, the men in black brought Ophelia to her bedroom and left to give the royal family some peace. The Doctor of Divinity quit the room as well, muttering something about needing a drink as he shut the door.

Claudius, Gertrude, Horatio, Laertes, and Hamlet remained. The king and queen hovered anxiously at the foot of the bed, and Horatio stood behind the prince with a stiff back, not ready to let his friend out of his sight. It seemed only Hamlet and Laertes were willing to sit at Ophelia's bedside.

Hamlet, who had hardly relinquished control of Ophelia's right hand, glanced at the other people in the room and grimaced. A thick tension had settled among them, out of place in a bedroom decorated like a young girl's room and lit by late afternoon sun. If someone decided to break it this might all end in a shouting match. That was to be expected, of course. They'd just discovered that the young woman before them was actually alive; Hamlet was the only one here who hadn't wasted his breath grieving in the days prior. It was a lot to take in.

Still, Hamlet would have much preferred it if they would give him some alone time with Ophelia, just so he could gather his thoughts without anyone watching. He'd returned to Denmark ready to finish what he'd started, then Ophelia was dead, and then she was alive. Was he supposed to be happy that she could finally hear his true feelings? Remorse over how she had taken her life, and how that might as well have been his fault? Guilt over what he'd put Laertes through? Or dread, because now Ophelia would be present for what his father had tasked him to do?

Laertes held Ophelia's left hand and occasionally glanced from Ophelia to Hamlet, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Hamlet had no way of knowing it, but his declaration of love to Ophelia, and the whole "resurrecting from the grave" bit, was giving Laertes pause. He couldn't forgive the other man for his father's murder, but now Ophelia was _alive_. That fact alone changed everything. Already Laertes could feel his strong opinions begin to waver.

The two men had almost forgotten there were other people in the room, until King Claudius coughed politely. "_I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him._"

Horatio nodded without looking at Claudius, his true obedience lying in Hamlet rather than the king. Hamlet couldn't blame his uncle for wanting some space; Ophelia was still as white as a ghost, looking very much dead despite her pulse. And it did not escape the prince's notice that Claudius had been more twitchy than usual ever since Hamlet's return.

Laertes shook himself out of his thoughtful stupor long enough to stand and escort the king and queen to the door. (Hamlet certainly wasn't going to do it.) But as the trio left, the prince turned and nodded to his friend, indicating that he should go, too. Horatio nodded deeply to him, and then left without another word.

As soon as Queen Gertrude stepped into the hallway, all of the adrenaline and pent-up emotions left her in a heavy sigh. She whisked herself to her bedroom, trembling from exhaustion and mumbling something about taking a long nap.

Claudius, however, closed the bedroom door quickly, leaving him and Laertes in the hallway. Afternoon light shined through the sparse windows and bounced off of the stone floors and gilded columns. All was silent, as if the whole castle of Denmark was holding its breath.

"_Strengthen your patience in our last night's speech. We'll put the matter to the present push_," the king muttered fiercely, his eyes swinging like frenzied pendulums. "_This grave shall have a living monument. An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; till then in patience our preceding be._"

Laertes was confused for moment, before he remembered. Of course; he had sworn to Claudius that Hamlet would die at the tip of his sword. How could he have forgotten something that had consumed his entire being so easily? But the answer was as clear as day: Ophelia. Who could thing about killing while she still drew breath?

And now, Hamlet had said those three words. He'd seemed apologetic. Somehow, there was hope for a future for all of their blackened souls.

King Claudius bid him good day and left to find his wife, his heavy black coat standing out against the beams of light that slashed across the stone floor. But before reentering her room, Laertes hesitated outside Ophelia's door and tried to gather some semblance of strength from its cool wood. His sister was his top priority now, not the prince. And yet he couldn't ignore his father's murderer, either. From the rational part of his mind, the forgiving portion, Laertes had many questions only Hamlet could answer. One conversation, he promised himself. One chance to talk one-on-one, man-to-man, and then he would decide what to do from there.

With a deep breath, Laertes opened the door.

* * *

><p>Hamlet breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the latch click closed. Leave Laertes and his uncle to their plotting, he thought. All that mattered now was Ophelia.<p>

He looked down upon his beloved's face and felt his limbs sag in exhaustion. In his mind, it had taken too long for the funeral procession to turn around, Ophelia's body carried in the coffin because there had been no other option. They scarcely believed what had happened right in front of their eyes, anyway. Only when the royal physician confirmed Hamlet's words did the rest of the mourners bow their heads in stunned, but thankful, prayer. And then came the formalities of it all: the physician insisting on doing a whole health scan, the workers grumbling about the extra work as they shuffled Ophelia's body from her grave, to the infirmary, and finally to her bedroom, the queen saying "God be praised" much too often for Hamlet's liking. Why couldn't they all just leave him and Ophelia in peace? He was grateful that everyone eventually did drift off to their respective quarters, but there would be no getting rid of Ophelia's brother. Laertes would return soon, and then, well…there were many heavy words that needed to be said between him and the nobleman.

Ophelia coughed and twitched slightly, but it was nothing for him to be excited over. Apparently all half-conscious patients did that while in their state of deep sleep. She'd been _dead_ this morning…at the thought Hamlet held her hand just a little bit tighter. Ophelia might be breathing, but she was resting on the border between the world of the living and heaven. She could still die at a moment's notice.

If only she would wake up…

Hamlet flicked his eyes to the door to make sure it was shut, and then rested his forehead against the palm of her lukewarm hand in fervent prayer. "Ophelia," he whispered. "Please, wake up." His breath caught. "Come back…" The words "to me" died in his throat. He hadn't the right to say such intimate words. Not yet, and perhaps not ever.

There was so much more he needed to say, so many words that would hold greater meaning if she was awake. What magic words could heal her? Would God listen to his prayers, even after all he'd thought and done? There was not enough time on this earth, never enough, and if it was in God's power to grant he'd beg for more. Or at least for a second chance.

Laertes reentered the room as silent as he could, out of respect for Ophelia and her condition. He had expected much the same image as before, though the side of him that still despised Hamlet pictured the prince in the process of ravishing his unconscious sister. But somehow, the reality surprised him more. Ophelia was still lying on the bed, but Hamlet was clutching her hand to his face, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. His lips were moving, but if his whispers held any voice behind them Laertes couldn't hear them.

Well, the noble man thought. This certainly changed a few things.

He stepped further into the room, his heel cuffing against the rug. Hamlet visibly flinched and quickly set Ophelia's hand back on the bedcovers, the sacred moment lost. Laertes took note of the fact that the prince did not release her from his grasp, instead using his other hand to hastily wipe away his tears.

Laertes, being a gentleman, did not comment on the other man's display of raw emotion. "How does she fare?"

"Well, though methinks she blinked," Hamlet replied. His original wariness returned as the man who was essentially his rival sat in the chair on the opposite side of the bed. When Laertes took Ophelia's other hand in his own, Hamlet imagined that to an observer they must look like mirror images of each other.

They sat in silence for some time, neither knowing what to say. Or rather, what to say first. Behind Laertes the curtains billowed in the breeze from the open windows. The sound of a clock chiming in another room could be heard, but neither men seemed willing to distract themselves by counting the chimes.

When Ophelia's eyelids twitched again, Hamlet spoke. "_Hear you, sir, what is the reason that you use me thus?_" He asked. "_I loved you ever._"

Laertes had to have heard him, but he didn't answer. At the other man's silence, Hamlet turned his gaze back to Ophelia. "_But it is no matter. Let Hercules himself do what he may, the cat will mew, and dog will have his day._"

That finally drew Laertes' attention. He dismissed the last sentence as the ramblings of a part-time madman, but the first segment was something he could not ignore. "It matters as money does to a man," he said with a bitter edge to his voice. "Ophelia is belov'd of us both. We should not quarrel, not while she can't hear."

Hamlet nodded, and they lapsed into silence again. Then, "How fares mine uncle?"

Laertes shrugged. "As well as he should."

"And my mother?"

"Well; as fair as ever, though distress hath lined her face these past nights. But now you walk upon Denmark again. Methinks she might smile once more."

"For me?" Hamlet scoffed. "Not until I am my father's visage. Methinks Ophelia will make her sing."

Laertes appeared confused at his remark, but to Hamlet it made perfect sense. What had been his mother's first action at Ophelia's funeral but to lament that the maid would never be her daughter? Not to mention, the last time Queen Gertrude had seen him he'd been a shouting, deranged, murderous madman. She probably wouldn't be particularly receptive to him at the moment.

In a soft voice, Hamlet attempted to delve deeper into the other man's thoughts. "And how fare'st you, noble Laertes?"

The other man shifted in his chair. "I'll praise your name when Ophelia wakes," he muttered, effectively cutting off that topic of conversation. Once again, they let silence overtake them.

Hamlet wasn't sure how much time had passed before Laertes blatantly said, "You killed my father."

The prince, who was rubbing Ophelia's hand, paused mid-stroke. He didn't see any reason to deny the fact. "Yes," he replied.

A pause. And then, "Feel you no remorse?"

Hamlet could hear the rising anger in Laertes' voice, a tone as familiar to him as death. He'd used the same infliction himself. It was not so long ago that his father had been murdered, and he'd been the one cursing everyone he'd deemed responsible. Even Ophelia had experienced the taste of his vengeance, despite her being blameless. But Hamlet judged this to be the wrong time to tell Laertes of these facts, and continued to be apologetic. "My grief and guilt are not to be talked of. Believe me, Laertes; I stay silent not because my soul is of tarnished lead, but that my sorrow cannot be expressed more than you and I have bled already. Polonius was a good man." _Ignoring the times he spied on me_, Hamlet added silently. "Forgive me. I mistook your father for Claudius."

Laertes had also stopped rubbing each of Ophelia's fingers, and stared at Hamlet with a bewildered, but softened, gaze. "What gave you cause to slay the king?"

"How strange." Hamlet flashed him a grin. "I have oft asked myself that same question."

Either men might have spoke further, but suddenly Ophelia's head started to roll side to side. A small groan came from her lips, and her eyes clenched shut. She was finally waking up!

Laertes leaned forward in eager anticipation, but Hamlet remained clutching the maid's hand and moved no closer. Fear overtook his earlier confidence. What if she saw his face and only remembered how cruel he had been all those days ago? What if she forgave him? He'd heard his mother mention something about Ophelia being in a state of madness in the days before her death. What if her brain was still out of joint with the rest of the world? What if she didn't remember him? Which would hurt worse, to be hated or forgotten? What if?! The questions paralyzed Hamlet until he could look at nothing but his love's hand.

Ophelia muttered something unintelligible, and the prince could see fear flicker in Laertes' eyes. The other man had no wish to see his sister live out her second chance at life in a state of madness. Finally, he swallowed and spoke. "Ophelia," he said. "Dear sister, can you hear?"

The woman slowly opened her eyes, but even from Hamlet's angle he could see her face change to confusion. "Laertes," she breathed. "Brother. I'm sorry…I drown'd. Are you with me in heaven? Or some hell?"

Laertes smiled shyly and shook his head, willing away the small tears that formed in his eyes. "No, sister, neither. You can breathe again. You yet live, thanks to the prince Hamlet here." The man glanced over at Hamlet, and the prince was swallowed by Laertes' enormous gratitude. It was forgiveness. Hamlet might have killed Polonius, but if it wasn't for him, Laertes would be weeping at Ophelia's grave. Who knows what desperate acts Laertes might have committed then? But they didn't matter as much now. Yes, Polonius was dead, that much could not be erased. But Hamlet and Laertes met eyes in a new light, both beginning to wonder about the future. Ophelia was alive! Anything was possible!

However, as another furrowed brow appeared across Ophelia's beautiful face, Hamlet was reminded that the future would be severely dimmed if even one of his fears came true.

"Hamlet?" Ophelia murmured. Even the way she said his name made his heart hammer in his chest.

He felt her hand move in his grip, as if she'd attempted to move it and was surprised to find it stuck. On instinct Hamlet held it tighter, but the time for holding back out of fear was over. With a deep breath, Hamlet watched as Ophelia turned her head, and they met eyes for the first time in many (too many) days.

"Hello, Ophelia," Hamlet breathed. His love didn't seem to be breathing. "It's me, Hamlet."

He didn't even twitch, for fear that if he did the movement would startle her and she'd take her hand back. Laertes was worried as well; he'd just toyed with the idea that he and the prince could be friends, and that wouldn't be very possible if Ophelia wasn't back to her old self. But Hamlet was the only one of the two who knew of the falling out he'd had with her, so only he was worried about that becoming an issue.

Everything rested on Ophelia, and what she, and her brain, would decide to remember.

**Jeez, these chapters take a long time to make…sorry, folks. Hope you're liking my little Shakespearean adventure!**


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